


Hate

by OzQueen



Series: CP 100 situations [25]
Category: Captain Planet and the Planeteers
Genre: Gen, Hate, Murder, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-10
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 22:58:12
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/508632
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OzQueen/pseuds/OzQueen
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Plunder will buy him out of any trouble, should it follow them. Plunder will chase away demons with cash.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hate

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the dark fic challenge @ cpfanfic on livejournal. This has been a work in progress for _ages_ , and was originally going to have totally slashy Plunder/Bleak in it. I kind of failed there, but I hope this still serves as an interesting character study of Bleak. He is _such_ an intriguing guy. I think of all the 'bad guys' in canon, Bleak seems the most ruthless to me. I hope I've done him justice here.

* * *

The rain is driving down in icy, icy sheets, rippling through the silver streetlight and pouring down the windshield of the stationary car.

Bleak sits for several long moments, leather gloves creaking as he grips the steering wheel, staring out into the dark. Fuck Plunder, he thinks, but he climbs out of the car and into the rain, which immediately soaks him.

The night is pitch and quiet. Bleak's boots slosh through the water in the street, and the rain is cold against the top of his head and down the back of his neck. He cranes his head back to look up at the run-down apartment building. A few lights are on here and there, but most of the windows are dark.

Bleak throws his shoulder against the door without slowing his pace and it slams inward, splintering under his weight. He strides on, trailing water on the threadbare carpet. The apartment he wants is only just down the corridor, and that door gives just as easily, the chain snapping in two and rattling back against the door-frame, broken and useless.

He keeps moving, through the kitchen, and two steps further is the bedroom, a sleepy figure only just stirring, torn from slumber by the noise of the door being wrenched from its hinges.

Bleak puts two bullets into him and leaves before anyone else knows he's there.

* * *

Bleak's dripping water onto Plunder's hardwood floors, but he doesn't give a shit. Plunder's all wrapped up in some sort of silk robe, his hair spilling soft around his shoulders and a drink in his hand _._ Bleak hates him.

"Is it done?" Plunder asks, sinking back into an over-stuffed leather chair.

"Of course it is," Bleak says gruffly. He doesn't ask who it was. Or why it had to be done.

"Were you seen?"

Bleak grits his teeth momentarily. "Nope."

"Good. Your money's in the drawer of my desk." Plunder motions with his glass, and Bleak opens the drawer and pulls out a wad of cash, stuffing it into the inside pocket of his jacket. He doesn't bother counting it. It'll all be there – probably more than he was promised.

"You'll show yourself out, of course," Plunder says.

Bleak leaves without a word, a thin ribbon of rainwater traced on the wooden floors.

* * *

He stops on the way home and fucks a prostitute in an alley that stinks of garbage and piss, bass thumping from some underground club in the building across the street. He winds his hand into her matted hair and pulls hard.

Home, he stands in the shower, needles of hot water stinging against his skin, and he falls asleep on a hard mattress with a gun under his pillow.

He has successfully driven uneasiness away again, no questions asked, and life goes on.

* * *

Plunder's in a bad mood. Some deal with an oil tycoon that was a friend of a friend of his father's has fallen through, and he's already ranted and raved about it so much he's breathless.

He sinks down into the chair behind the desk in his office – _one_ of his offices; this is just the office he happens to be using today – and motions for Bleak to fetch him a drink.

Bleak bites back a retort. _I'm not a bleedin' waiter,_ he thinks, but he gets the drink and slams it onto the desk in front of Plunder, hoping this means they'll cut their losses and get the fuck out of here. It's too damn hot in this city, and there are too many buildings made of glass and chrome; things that shine in the fucking sun and hurt Bleak's eyes. The city's too new – it shot up quick, but organised, and the streets are straight and wide and there's nowhere to hide, no shadow or veil across things here.

It makes Bleak uneasy, being somewhere so sparkling.

"I'm not sure our usual tactics will work here," Plunder says eventually, staring out the window at the city skyline. He sounds bitter.

Bleak disagrees. He figures if he weren't so impossible to get to, roughing this guy up would change his mind real fast. Plunder, apparently, is against it. Maybe the family connection is holding him back – though Bleak never figured his boss to be a sentimental sort of guy.

Plunder reaches for his cane and runs his fingers across the ivory elephant's head. "Do you feel like a challenge, Mr. Bleak?"

Bleak looks at the back of Plunder's head warily. Plunder's chair doesn't spin back to face the room, but Bleak's silence is, apparently, enough to warrant further conversation.

"The deadline for this deal is Friday evening," Plunder says.

Bleak glances at his watch, out of habit. Friday evening is less than 48 hours away and Bleak is wary of the security surrounding this guy: roughing him up might change his mind, but Bleak's gotta get to him first. Besides that, the only reason he and Plunder are in town is to meet with him, and it's gonna look suspicious as hell if he suddenly shows up dead after turning Plunder's business venture down.

"See if you can change his mind," Plunder says quietly, finally spinning his chair back to face Bleak.

Bleak clenches a fist, slowly. "Not sure that's gonna work," he says, diplomatically. "This guy's got bodyguards and a security system like bloody Alcatraz."

"I'm aware it will be a challenge," Plunder says, sounding bored. "But this is what I hire you for."

Bleak feels a hot spire of anger rise within him. "I'm only one man," he says. "Ain't no way I can do this clean. Ain't no way I can get to him without shitloads of compromise, boss."

Plunder swills his drink. "Try."

"I'm tellin' you," Bleak says quietly, through gritted teeth, "this is a bad idea. This ain't gonna work." He leans on his fists, braced on Plunder's desk, and looks down into Plunder's face.

He stares back at him, unblinking. "Why not?" he asks, impetuously.

Bleak hates how stupid this man can be, sometimes. He's rich and he knows his way through loopholes and broken laws and legal systems, but when it comes to the dirty work, he's a fucking idiot.

This is the closest Bleak has ever come to just saying no, but he finds that years of habit aren't quite ready to be broken.

For a moment, he wants to wrap his hand into Plunder's hair and slam his head down on the fucking desk, splitting his skull open. The image blurs for a moment with the memory of rain and bass and the whore in the alleyway, and Bleak barely resists spitting onto the floor.

"I'll be back," he mutters. He storms from the room, slamming the door behind him.

In the elevator, he leans against the wall and promises himself that if everything does go to hell, he'll do his best to make it back and put a bullet in Plunder's head for all the trouble he's caused.

* * *

Driving through the wide, shimmering streets, Bleak figures that Plunder probably has enough money to get him out of whatever trouble he lands himself in. If Plunder has taught him nothing else, it's that money can buy anything, and there's always someone, somewhere, willing to sell their soul for the right price.

Failing that, Plunder will at least fly his ass to Mexico or somewhere until they figure out what the next step is.

Bleak, however, has no desire to have a death sentence hanging over him, whether or not it turns out to be a real threat. He knows the best way to avoid it is to just go with his gut and not do what he's about to do, but going back to Plunder with nothing taken care of isn't exactly tempting, either.

He drives right to the gate and buzzes, says he's with Plunder and needs to see Parker now. They don't want to let him in, but Bleak can be pretty persuasive when he needs to be – something he figures he picked up from Plunder; that sleazy sort of charm that all these rich assholes seem to have in their blood.

Parker's no exception, though he doesn't show any hospitality to Bleak. He's flanked by two guys almost as big as Bleak, black suits, holsters against their ribs. They take the knife tucked into the front of Bleak's belt at the door and show him into a study with dark, shiny floorboards. They stand either side of Parker, who waits silently.

"You two sure do look pretty," Bleak says, smirking. (One thing he's always been grateful for is that despite his ceremony and pomp and shitty fashion sense, Plunder has never tried to inflict it upon Bleak.)

"What is it you want, Mr. Bleak?" Parker asks impatiently. "I'm a busy man."

He's older than Plunder, short silver hair and pale eyes, but a smooth face. He wears a blue suit, custom-made, no doubt, but less flamboyant than the suits Plunder wears.

Bleak wonders what slight twist of fate may have created a future where he worked for Parker instead of Plunder, and whether or not he might hate things less if that were the case.

"Mr. Plunder wants you to understand that his offer still stands," Bleak says, clasping his hands behind his back. There's a gun at the small of his back, and he's too relieved that he wasn't properly searched at the door to wonder what might have happened if he had been. (Sometimes, rich assholes like this feel safe because they've never been threatened by someone like Bleak. They don't tend to run in the same circles, and Bleak wants to scoff at the bodyguards who have probably never actually dealt with any real combat at all.)

"I have rejected Mr. Plunder's offer," Parker says crisply. "Unless you've got a new offer on the table, one that works more in my favour, I suggest you go back there and tell him nothing has changed."

Bleak wonders if this asshole will be so smug when his bodyguards are lying dead on the floor. He figures probably not, and wonders briefly how Plunder would react if _he_ were to die. (He finds himself hoping, suddenly, that he's more than just an indispensable lackey.)

Bleak's pretty sure there are security cameras all through this place, and maybe sound equipment too, but he's also pretty sure Blight owes Plunder some sort of favour, and so he's not too concerned about video evidence when he shoots the first bodyguard in the face.

The other guy moves faster than Bleak anticipates, and the bullet grazes his arm. He hisses a breath in through his teeth and fires another couple of quick shots, both of them missing Parker's second man.

Parker's on the floor, yelling something, and it's when his bodyguard stops to try and haul him backwards that Bleak hits him, the bullet going straight through his temple.

Parker's hands go up immediately, and his eyes are wide, spatters of blood dark on his pale face. "Don't shoot!" he cries. "Don't shoot!"

"Get behind your desk and sign those bloody papers," Bleak says.

* * *

Bleak's arm is throbbing and blood is sticky and dark on his skin. It's run down to his wrist and soaked into his jeans. He looks down at his lap as he pulls up at a red light, and flips his cell phone open.

"What now, Bleak?" Plunder asks. He sounds tense, and Bleak figures the last phone call put him on edge, enough so that he's actually worried about what to do next.

"Can't come to the office," Bleak says. "I'm a bit of a mess, boss."

Plunder tuts quickly. "Wait outside for me."

"I'll be a half hour or so," Bleak says. "Gotta make a stop." He snaps his cell shut again without waiting for an answer, and steers the car forward. The sun is set now, and twilight is over the city, which is lit up with gold and yellow lights.

The papers, signed with Parker's signature, are in the briefcase on the backseat, and Blight's mocking laugh is still ringing in Bleak's head. There's a trace of smoke in the sky behind him, a trail over the city, grounded in the ruins of Parker's mansion, which will be alight for hours yet.

He's not completely convinced that Parker understood: that there's no technological evidence left to tie Bleak to that moment, thanks to MAL wiping the security system; but even so, the bullet wound, the dead bodyguards, and the fire all seem like kind of a bad omen to Bleak, and he wants to get as far the fuck away as he can.

He stops by a warehouse, the evening shift moving about in the distance, all cranes and lights, and dumps Parker's bodyguards behind a towering stack of pallets and flattened cardboard boxes. Then he drives away again, glancing in his rear-vision mirror. Nobody's looking, nobody's taking notice, and even if they were, the light this far from the factory is too blue and dark to make him anything more than a shadow.

* * *

Plunder slides into the backseat only five minutes after Bleak pulls into the office parking garage. "Drive," he says, and Bleak grits his teeth and squeals out of the lot, back into the Thursday evening traffic. He's driving with one arm and he thinks for a moment about suggesting that Plunder take the wheel and let him deal with cleaning himself up a little. But he doesn't. He keeps his mouth shut.

Plunder snaps the briefcase open and runs a hand over the papers. "He signed them," he says, happily. "I knew he would."

"Yeah, well," Bleak mutters, "there might be a few problems."

"Your alibi is sorted," Plunder says smoothly.

"Got a story for this hole in my arm?" Bleak asks sarcastically, catching Plunder's eye in the mirror.

Plunder frowns.

"Blight wiped the security monitors," Bleak continues, as though he hadn't said anything. "Wasn't sure what to do with the bodies. Tossed 'em over by some warehouses on the industrial side of town. Guess they'll be found eventually. There's a lot of blood on Parker's carpet, but I'm hopin' the fire will take care of that."

"Your blood?" Plunder asks crisply.

Bleak swallows and looks down at his arm. "Maybe a little."

"What about Parker?"

"Said the usual," Bleak says. "I'd be back if he didn't stick to the story. He'd have a bullet in his head if the police so much as sniffed after us. Suggested he make up some bullshit about walkin' in on a robbery or somethin' to explain where the hell his bodyguards disappeared to."

"How noble of them, to offer themselves as hostages in return for Parker's survival," Plunder says drily, looking out the window.

"Not sure he'll stick to it," Bleak warns. He looks down at the gummy blood on his arm. "The cops only gotta see this to know I was there."

Plunder runs a hand over his face. "Get us to the airport." He flips his cell phone open. "I'll have the jet ready."

* * *

Plunder's jet is cruising on auto-pilot, which always makes Bleak nervous, considering Blight's the one who designed it all. (He doesn't trust her – not one bit, and as far as he's concerned, if she and Plunder have an argument she'll probably see fit to just hit a button somewhere and explode anything with her fingerprints on it into a million little pieces.)

Plunder's sitting in a plush leather seat, his seatbelt loose, a drink in his hand and a frown on his face as Bleak swabs the gash on his arm with alcohol.

He growls through his teeth as the blood starts running again, the wound stinging. It's deeper than he thought – more than a graze, really. The bullet hit him proper, just got the side of his arm rather than going through anything. A decent chip has been taken out and it hurts like hell.

"Did Parker take your threat of return seriously?" Plunder asks.

"He watched me shoot his bodyguards before I set fire to his house," Bleak says, clumsily trying to bind the wound with a strip of sterile bandage. "If he don't take us seriously after that, not sure what else we can do..." The bandage falls loose. "Shit."

Plunder sighs and reaches across to bandage it for him. He pulls it too tight and Bleak nearly king-hits him.

"Well, he signed the papers," Plunder says after a moment. "That's all that really matters."

* * *

With all the travelling and running around he does for his job, a home isn't something Bleak can lay claim to. But home hasn't ever been a comfortable idea anyway – so long as he can find some place dark, and dry, and maybe a little on the small side, he can get himself a decent night's sleep. Bright lights and noise and space – they make his eyes ache and itch, make him tense and hard with anxiety.

He leaves Plunder to his penthouse and he goes in search of something more suited to his own tastes.

He keeps his sore arm close to his side and picks a bar he knows never closes. This part of town is all alleyways and dingy businesses with bars on the windows, neon signs declaring strippers or beer, or both.

Somewhere, in the back of his head, is a tight knot of worry that has him on a Most Wanted list; that has the police closing a net around him, Parker screaming accusations, his skin still smeared with blood and ash.

He loosens the knot with alcohol, handing notes over the bar, each one of them soiled with death and smoke.

* * *

The alleyway is wet with rain. Bleak can see his breath as he leans one hand against the wall, his other delving into the fly of his jeans. He pisses behind a trash can, listening to the noises of the city around him. A siren wails a way over, bass thuds from a nightclub, an argument from the strip club on the corner spills onto the street.

The booze has loosened Bleak up enough that the worry has been replaced with reckless bravery. Plunder will buy him out of any trouble, should it follow them. Plunder will chase away demons with cash.

Bleak wonders if he can really trust Plunder, when it's Plunder's fault he's in this position anyway. He growls and spits into the gutter. Sometimes he wishes he had the same power over Plunder as Plunder seems to have over him.

* * *

"Bleak, what time do you call this?" Plunder's voice is angry and loud, even through the intercom.

Bleak leans against the buzzer again, beer still on his breath. "We got a problem," he says.

Plunder tuts and releases the security door. Bleak pushes his way into the building and takes the elevator up to the penthouse, cursing and muttering all the way. His stomach is churning and empty. His arm is throbbing, the bandage pinching a little too tight.

Plunder is in a silk robe, his hair loose – though Bleak would bet money on the fact he probably had it in a hairnet before the buzzer rang.

"What's the problem?" Plunder asks impatiently. "If this is about Parker..."

It's not about Parker; not really. Bleak doesn't know what it's about. He can feel hatred running like blood in his veins, and fear, and adrenaline, like always. He never feels safe; he never feels rested; he never feels at ease. He just wants Plunder to understand, just once, what it's like to be so on edge all the time, not knowing if you can trust the people you need to trust, not knowing what tomorrow will be like. He wants Plunder to lie awake at night.

Plunder is faster than Bleak expected him to be. He ducks his first punch, the blow just glancing across his cheek. He gives a shout of surprise and anger, and then Bleak connects with him properly, not having slowed down in order to give Plunder a chance to duck the second punch. Plunder sinks to his knees and spits blood, but Bleak winds a hand into his soft hair and pulls him up again.

"If you –"

"If I _what_?" Bleak asks icily, and he's gratified to see fear pass through Plunder's eyes.

"Listen, Bleak," Plunder says hastily, "if this is about money..."

Bleak splutters wordlessly for a moment, anger bitter on his tongue. "You –"

"You don't want to do anything too hasty," Plunder says breathlessly, squinting up at Bleak, his lip already swelling.

"Why not?" Bleak asks, winding his fist deeper into Plunder's hair. (He wants to rip it out – just rip it right out.)

"Because I'm all that stands between you and a jail cell," Plunder says through gritted teeth.

Bleak knows that all too well.

"Why don't you tell me what the problem is?" Plunder says, and Bleak can't believe how smooth his voice can sound in this sort of situation.

The trouble is, Bleak isn't sure _what_ the problem is. The problem is the throbbing wound on his arm; the ache in his gut. The problem is the split across his knuckles and the smell of blood that seems to cling to his skin.

"Tomorrow is gonna be the same damn thing," Bleak says suddenly, pulling Plunder's head back a little with each word. "Do this, Bleak, do that, Bleak, bloody go and do this and that..."

"Maybe you need a vacation," Plunder murmurs.

Bleak lets go of his hair and punches him again, sending him to the floor. Plunder doesn't stay there, he scrambles up and presses his back against the wall, tense, his eyes darting nervously from left to right. Bleak tightens his fist again.

"Parker won't talk," Plunder says, licking blood off his lower lip. "You don't need to worry about that."

"I'm not," Bleak says.

Plunder wipes his hand across his mouth. "Then what are you worrying about?"

"You've got no bleedin' idea," Bleak says suddenly. "You've got no bleedin' idea what I do for you."

"I know exactly what you do for me," Plunder says crisply. "I only ever pretend to be ignorant, Bleak, and even then only to the authorities."

Bleak folds his arms across his chest, gritting his teeth as the bullet wound in his arm throbs again.

"However," Plunder says carefully, raking his hand through his shoulder-length hair, "perhaps I have been a little.. demanding, lately. Perhaps it's time we converted our latest business – deals..." He draws the word out a little. "Perhaps it's time we converted business into leisure. Take some time to regroup."

"Fuck," Bleak spits. "You think I need a vacation?"

"It certainly couldn't hurt," Plunder says, watching him warily. "Take the jet. Take one of the penthouses, the beach houses, whatever you want."

Bleak can't imagine anything worse. He thinks if he wants to feel better, he needs to beat the living shit out of Plunder, but even as he stands there staring at him, he can feel the adrenaline draining away into exhaustion.

"When was the last time you slept?" Plunder asks abruptly. "It's four in the morning and I know you didn't sleep Thursday night. Tonight?"

"Nope," Bleak mutters.

Plunder points down the corridor, a dozen doors leading to a dozen different rooms. "Get some sleep, Bleak," he says. "And consider this your first and final warning. You punch me like that again and –"

"And what?" Bleak asks gruffly. And this – _this_ is suddenly his advantage. Because Plunder may dare to hurt someone, may dare to pull a trigger – but not against Bleak.

Bleak realises now that he _does_ hold a certain power over his boss. He could kill Plunder if he really wanted to. He killed two people yesterday, and there have been more before that. And Plunder knows that – he must fear Bleak, sometimes. (The thought is gratifying.)

"Just watch yourself," Bleak says, feeling the need to voice some sort of threat. "You ever fuck me around, Plunder, it'll be the last thing you do."

The slightest falter crosses Plunder's face, before he masks it again. "Have I given you reason to doubt me?"

"Not sure I need a reason," Bleak says. "So long as you understand what the end result will be."

A muscle twitches in Plunder's jaw.

Bleak strides past him, his boots heavy on the floor. He slams the door of the nearest bedroom and leans against the wall, his heart hammering, his blood pulsing. This feeling, this adrenaline is a constant weight, something he no longer relishes. It's a necessity, it's survival.

He hates it.


End file.
